If we could talk, I would tell you that the ache of missing you is still there.
The intensity fluctuates, but it's ever present. I miss you. Every day.
If
we could talk, I would tell you that sometimes I see little boys with
dark hair and sweet smiles and I wonder. Would you look like them?
If we could talk, I would tell you that I can't
erase doctor visits and ultrasound appointments from my phone's
calendar, even though the memory is full. It hurts to let go of
anything related to you, because I had to let go of you.
If
we could talk, I would tell you that when I see little blue birds I
think about you. They remind me that God takes care of us. His eye is
on the sparrow and I know He watches over you and me.
If
we could talk, I would tell you that your sister's presence in my life
is like a healing balm on my wounds. And even though she is here, I
never forget that you are not. You are irreplaceable.
If
we could talk, I would tell you that losing you was the worst thing
that has ever happened to me. When I have flashbacks of saying goodbye
to you, I gasp. Memories of your death make me cry, but memories of
your life make me smile.
If we could talk, I would tell
you that sometimes I struggle with guilt. I question if feeling happy
with your sister means I've left you behind. But I realize that when we
made the decision to try to have another baby, we were choosing to let
our hearts love again...and love is always the right choice.
If we could talk, the most important thing I would say is I love you. Always.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Friday, March 15, 2013
Two Words
Praying challenges me.
I have found that putting expectations on myself during prayer is almost always counterproductive. Whenever I make goals for the length and frequency of my prayers, I always fall short. I have realized that making strict rules for my prayer life shifts my focus away from God, which doesn't make sense.
Sometimes my words to God are few, but He draws me near anyway. I don't think He counts my words or the number of times I pray. Instead, I believe He listens to my heart...the joys and the sorrows in my soul.
When William was first diagnosed, my shock and sadness was disorienting.
All I could pray was, Carry me.
After William died, I was broken and weary.
The only words I could find were, Help me.
During my pregnancy with my daughter, the fear was overwhelming.
I pleaded with God, Protect her
When I hold my daughter in my arms as the sun is just beginning to rise,
I whisper, Thank you
Pouring your heart out to God can mean hours of praying...
but sometimes two words are enough.
I have found that putting expectations on myself during prayer is almost always counterproductive. Whenever I make goals for the length and frequency of my prayers, I always fall short. I have realized that making strict rules for my prayer life shifts my focus away from God, which doesn't make sense.
Sometimes my words to God are few, but He draws me near anyway. I don't think He counts my words or the number of times I pray. Instead, I believe He listens to my heart...the joys and the sorrows in my soul.
When William was first diagnosed, my shock and sadness was disorienting.
All I could pray was, Carry me.
After William died, I was broken and weary.
The only words I could find were, Help me.
During my pregnancy with my daughter, the fear was overwhelming.
I pleaded with God, Protect her
When I hold my daughter in my arms as the sun is just beginning to rise,
I whisper, Thank you
Pouring your heart out to God can mean hours of praying...
but sometimes two words are enough.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Time
I have taken a long retreat from writing in this public space. I have done a lot of writing in my head and in my heart, but have not felt inclined to share it. The past year was one full of grief, love, fear, and hope. I think I just felt too vulnerable to share many of my feelings out loud.
I have spent a lot of time pondering specific verses in Ecclesiastes 3 about time.
For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven...
A time to cry and a time to laugh...
A time to grieve and a time to dance...
A time to tear and a time to mend...
A time to be quiet and a time to speak...
God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God's work from beginning to end.
(verses 1, 4, 7, and 11)
Our openness about our beautiful and heartbreaking journey with William brought our family a level of love and support we could never have imagined. It is very clear to me that the time that I carried William was a time to speak. After we said goodbye, I needed time to be quiet.
To grieve. To cry. To mend.
As the months passed after William died, I found that grief takes various shapes and forms. I had trouble making decisions, being productive, and being emotionally available to the people in my life.
I would go to the grocery store and stand in front of the shelf as the minutes passed. What kind of pasta should I buy? What package of paper towels is the best deal? I had so much trouble making simple decisions.
I would sit at the kitchen table with a long list of people to thank for the kindness, donations, meals, and gifts we had received from so many. I would hold the pen in my hand and try to find the words to write. My sadness felt paralyzing. I just could not complete simple tasks.
I could not go to certain social gatherings, especially baby showers. I wanted so much to be there for the friends and the family I loved, but it was just so hard to be emotionally available when I was in so much pain.
When we decided to move forward with attempting to have another child, I was fragile. Losing William left my heart wounded and sore. When we received the miraculous news that our second IVF had worked and I was once again pregnant, fear and hope overcame me.
I was still grieving so heavily, but in the quiet moments I found myself whispering to God, Is my time to dance coming? Is it time to laugh again?
Time continued to pass and I found that I noticed the sun again. I felt the warmth of hope and the promise of happiness returning. The waters of grief began to recede. I felt less and less like I was drowning and gasping for air. It didn't hurt to breathe anymore.
It is now over a year since I held William...since I handed him over at the hospital, knowing I would never see him again on this side of Heaven...since I knelt in the grass at the cemetery wondering if I could truly go on without him here with me. And although the tears are falling as I write this, I can often speak of him without tears. In fact, I often speak of him with a smile now.
God has used the love of our friends and family, the birth of our daughter, and the passage of time to methodically mend the scattered pieces of my heart. I'm able to see the beauty of the seasons I've lived through.
My season with William, my season of grief...the long season of pregnancy with our daughter, her days as a newborn...there has been beauty all along. Sometimes painful beauty, the kind that refines. Sometimes beauty filled with joy and dreams fulfilled.
But God has truly made everything beautiful in its time.
Time will continue on, and there will surely be many seasons of joys and sorrows to come...but right now, I'm overwhelmed with gratefulness for this season.
It is time to laugh. It is time to dance.
I have spent a lot of time pondering specific verses in Ecclesiastes 3 about time.
For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven...
A time to cry and a time to laugh...
A time to grieve and a time to dance...
A time to tear and a time to mend...
A time to be quiet and a time to speak...
God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God's work from beginning to end.
(verses 1, 4, 7, and 11)
Our openness about our beautiful and heartbreaking journey with William brought our family a level of love and support we could never have imagined. It is very clear to me that the time that I carried William was a time to speak. After we said goodbye, I needed time to be quiet.
To grieve. To cry. To mend.
As the months passed after William died, I found that grief takes various shapes and forms. I had trouble making decisions, being productive, and being emotionally available to the people in my life.
I would go to the grocery store and stand in front of the shelf as the minutes passed. What kind of pasta should I buy? What package of paper towels is the best deal? I had so much trouble making simple decisions.
I would sit at the kitchen table with a long list of people to thank for the kindness, donations, meals, and gifts we had received from so many. I would hold the pen in my hand and try to find the words to write. My sadness felt paralyzing. I just could not complete simple tasks.
I could not go to certain social gatherings, especially baby showers. I wanted so much to be there for the friends and the family I loved, but it was just so hard to be emotionally available when I was in so much pain.
When we decided to move forward with attempting to have another child, I was fragile. Losing William left my heart wounded and sore. When we received the miraculous news that our second IVF had worked and I was once again pregnant, fear and hope overcame me.
I was still grieving so heavily, but in the quiet moments I found myself whispering to God, Is my time to dance coming? Is it time to laugh again?
Time continued to pass and I found that I noticed the sun again. I felt the warmth of hope and the promise of happiness returning. The waters of grief began to recede. I felt less and less like I was drowning and gasping for air. It didn't hurt to breathe anymore.
It is now over a year since I held William...since I handed him over at the hospital, knowing I would never see him again on this side of Heaven...since I knelt in the grass at the cemetery wondering if I could truly go on without him here with me. And although the tears are falling as I write this, I can often speak of him without tears. In fact, I often speak of him with a smile now.
God has used the love of our friends and family, the birth of our daughter, and the passage of time to methodically mend the scattered pieces of my heart. I'm able to see the beauty of the seasons I've lived through.
My season with William, my season of grief...the long season of pregnancy with our daughter, her days as a newborn...there has been beauty all along. Sometimes painful beauty, the kind that refines. Sometimes beauty filled with joy and dreams fulfilled.
But God has truly made everything beautiful in its time.
Time will continue on, and there will surely be many seasons of joys and sorrows to come...but right now, I'm overwhelmed with gratefulness for this season.
It is time to laugh. It is time to dance.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Fragments
Two weeks ago, I returned to work for the first time since September. Typically, I hardly ever miss more than one or two days of work at a time. As a teacher, I find that the planning required for calling out is often more work than just going in.
It was so strange to walk into my classroom after such a long absence. It felt like returning home to find that someone else had been living in my house for six months...rearranging the food in the cabinets and eating at my kitchen table. I don't mean this as a negative statement. Having been a long term substitute at the beginning of my career, I fully understand the balancing act required when you are filling in for another person. My substitute did an excellent job of respecting my space while also running the classroom in a way that worked for her. It wasn't bad...it was just different. It was a familiar place that felt unfamiliar.
So many things were different and some things were exactly the same. My reusable lunch bag was still sitting in my little refrigerator behind my desk (thankfully, my sub threw out the perishable food!). My picture frames were still sitting on the window sill. The little slips of paper found in fortune cookies years ago were still taped above my computer screen. My sub plans for the morning of September 22nd were still saved on my computer's desktop.
I left school that Thursday morning for an ultrasound, planning to return by lunch. An hour later, we found out our son was going to die and that my own health was at risk, too. I didn't step foot in my classroom again for almost six months.
My school has been tremendously supportive to me during the time of my absence and during my transition back to work. My husband, family, and friends encouraged me and prayed for me as I struggled through the first few days. Bit by bit, I got used to being back in the school environment and taking on the responsibilities my job requires. Overall, it's been a fairly successful two weeks.
But each time I add something "normal" back into my life, I feel as though I'm being divided into pieces. Whether it's something small like buying food at the store, or something big like returning to work...I feel like I'm living two lives at one time.
In the one life, I function in a way that is familiar...I smile at coworkers in the hallway and casually converse while waiting for the photocopier. I help my seven year old students talk out their disagreements over who is "it" during tag at recess. I read them stories and plan lessons for them. I chuckle at the cute things they say. I come home and empty the dishwasher and fold clothes. I joke around with my husband and get angry when people don't use their turn signal.
But then there is this other life I'm forced to live. The life where my baby died. The life where William's absence scratches at my heart every minute, leaving me raw and exhausted at the end of each day. In this life, I plan what I will place at his grave the next time we visit the cemetery. I send a picture to CHOP to include in the memorial service they have for children who have died. I get on the scale and mentally tally how much weight I've lost since having my baby. My baby who doesn't live with me. My baby who I don't get to watch grow up.
And even though I've had so many moments where I feel successful in the one life, the other life is always there. When I teach a great lesson to my students...William is still gone. When I fold three loads of laundry and tidy up the house...William is still missing. The moments of normalcy and functioning in the one life fail to undo the pain and grief in the other.
I can imagine it's common for the bereaved to feel fragmented...to function in the different roles they fulfill while wondering if they will ever feel like a whole person again. I find myself looking at strangers in stores and restaurants, wondering if they also have pain scratching at their hearts while they order their lunch or pick out their produce.
As people so often say, I will keep putting one foot in front of the other. I will grade papers. I will laugh with my husband. I will miss my son.
And I will have faith that God is holding every fragment of my life and my heart in His hands...staying by my side as I adjust to my new "normal".
It was so strange to walk into my classroom after such a long absence. It felt like returning home to find that someone else had been living in my house for six months...rearranging the food in the cabinets and eating at my kitchen table. I don't mean this as a negative statement. Having been a long term substitute at the beginning of my career, I fully understand the balancing act required when you are filling in for another person. My substitute did an excellent job of respecting my space while also running the classroom in a way that worked for her. It wasn't bad...it was just different. It was a familiar place that felt unfamiliar.
So many things were different and some things were exactly the same. My reusable lunch bag was still sitting in my little refrigerator behind my desk (thankfully, my sub threw out the perishable food!). My picture frames were still sitting on the window sill. The little slips of paper found in fortune cookies years ago were still taped above my computer screen. My sub plans for the morning of September 22nd were still saved on my computer's desktop.
I left school that Thursday morning for an ultrasound, planning to return by lunch. An hour later, we found out our son was going to die and that my own health was at risk, too. I didn't step foot in my classroom again for almost six months.
My school has been tremendously supportive to me during the time of my absence and during my transition back to work. My husband, family, and friends encouraged me and prayed for me as I struggled through the first few days. Bit by bit, I got used to being back in the school environment and taking on the responsibilities my job requires. Overall, it's been a fairly successful two weeks.
But each time I add something "normal" back into my life, I feel as though I'm being divided into pieces. Whether it's something small like buying food at the store, or something big like returning to work...I feel like I'm living two lives at one time.
In the one life, I function in a way that is familiar...I smile at coworkers in the hallway and casually converse while waiting for the photocopier. I help my seven year old students talk out their disagreements over who is "it" during tag at recess. I read them stories and plan lessons for them. I chuckle at the cute things they say. I come home and empty the dishwasher and fold clothes. I joke around with my husband and get angry when people don't use their turn signal.
But then there is this other life I'm forced to live. The life where my baby died. The life where William's absence scratches at my heart every minute, leaving me raw and exhausted at the end of each day. In this life, I plan what I will place at his grave the next time we visit the cemetery. I send a picture to CHOP to include in the memorial service they have for children who have died. I get on the scale and mentally tally how much weight I've lost since having my baby. My baby who doesn't live with me. My baby who I don't get to watch grow up.
And even though I've had so many moments where I feel successful in the one life, the other life is always there. When I teach a great lesson to my students...William is still gone. When I fold three loads of laundry and tidy up the house...William is still missing. The moments of normalcy and functioning in the one life fail to undo the pain and grief in the other.
I can imagine it's common for the bereaved to feel fragmented...to function in the different roles they fulfill while wondering if they will ever feel like a whole person again. I find myself looking at strangers in stores and restaurants, wondering if they also have pain scratching at their hearts while they order their lunch or pick out their produce.
As people so often say, I will keep putting one foot in front of the other. I will grade papers. I will laugh with my husband. I will miss my son.
And I will have faith that God is holding every fragment of my life and my heart in His hands...staying by my side as I adjust to my new "normal".
Friday, February 10, 2012
A Lens of Loss
Tonight we decided to go out to eat. Seeing as we have no food in the house, it seemed like a reasonable solution for dinner. I put on real clothes (as in, pants that are not preceded by the word "yoga" or "pajama") and we headed to a local sandwich place called Isaac's.
We talked throughout dinner and I actually enjoyed eating what I ordered. We even splurged on dessert. And even though the Salted Caramel Vanilla Crunch Cake was everything I hoped it would be and more, we left with slightly heavy hearts.
You see, when you are hurting inside...being out in the world can hurt. Sometimes it hurts a little. Sometimes it hurts a lot.
I remember going out to lunch at a diner only eight days after William died (and was born...I use the words "born" and "died" interchangeably. What word do you use when the events happen at the same time?) We sat there as I pushed the food around my plate. My husband and I just stared off into space, still unable to really find words to fill the immense silence we felt after losing our firstborn.
The woman in the booth behind me was happily talking to her companion about her baby. She was pregnant with a girl and couldn't stop gushing about feeling her kick throughout the day. I wanted to block out her voice, but we were practically sitting back-to-back.
Each of her joyful words wounded me. When she started describing how she and her husband would put their hands on her stomach and squeal with delight when their daughter kicked, I silently started crying. I put my hands over my ears and shook my head back and forth. I wanted to run out of the diner and scream in the middle of the parking lot. I was sure my grief was going to kill me...right then and there.
I've had many moments like that over the past three months. When you feel so heartbroken, you wonder how it's possible that your heart continues to beat at all.
That woman had every right to be joyful. She had every right to talk about her pregnancy to her friend. But it hurts to hear those things after your baby dies. The happiness of others can sometimes magnify your pain.
This doesn't mean that people shouldn't be happy because others are hurting. It's just part of life. Your best day could be someone's worst. Your worst day could be someone's best.
After you've suffered a great loss, you see the world through a lens. A lens of loss. For an undetermined amount of time, there are many things (some expected, some unexpected) that remind you of your loss.
Sometimes looking through the lens of loss gives you compassion. You see the suffering and pain of others in a new way and you feel new levels of empathy.
Sometimes looking through the lens of loss makes you angry. You watch other people have their hopes fulfilled, while your dreams have been shattered.
Sometimes looking through the lens of loss causes you immense pain. You smile back at the pregnant woman in the grocery store, and then you go sit in your car and cry.
As we sat in Isaac's tonight and shared dessert, a large family sat beside us. One of the little boys was seated with his back to me, but soon turned his entire body around to stare at me. He couldn't have been more than one or two years old. He had beautiful big brown eyes. His mom kept trying to distract him to make him turn around, but he wouldn't take those eyes off of me.
In an alternate reality, I would love this. I love children and typically delight in interacting with them. I attempted to smile and wave at him, but my lens of loss makes these familiar responses feel foreign.
His mom smiled at my husband and said, "I think you have some competition! My son can't take his eyes off of her!" We both smiled.
We didn't tell her how we were really feeling. We didn't tell her that our son has just died. We didn't tell her that her son reminded us of what we'll never have with William. How we won't take him to restaurants. How we won't see him grow year after year. How we'll never know the color of his eyes.
Because you don't force others to wear your lens of loss, your lens of grief. They see the world through their own lenses. Perhaps they've already known great pain...perhaps they haven't.
That family in Isaac's seemed to be enjoying a nice evening together. I sincerely hope they were all as happy and healthy as they appeared. And even though our brief encounter reminded us of our loss, I hope it reminded them of what they have.
And, for their sake, I hope they ordered the Salted Caramel Vanilla Crunch cake...because it was truly delicious.
We talked throughout dinner and I actually enjoyed eating what I ordered. We even splurged on dessert. And even though the Salted Caramel Vanilla Crunch Cake was everything I hoped it would be and more, we left with slightly heavy hearts.
You see, when you are hurting inside...being out in the world can hurt. Sometimes it hurts a little. Sometimes it hurts a lot.
I remember going out to lunch at a diner only eight days after William died (and was born...I use the words "born" and "died" interchangeably. What word do you use when the events happen at the same time?) We sat there as I pushed the food around my plate. My husband and I just stared off into space, still unable to really find words to fill the immense silence we felt after losing our firstborn.
The woman in the booth behind me was happily talking to her companion about her baby. She was pregnant with a girl and couldn't stop gushing about feeling her kick throughout the day. I wanted to block out her voice, but we were practically sitting back-to-back.
Each of her joyful words wounded me. When she started describing how she and her husband would put their hands on her stomach and squeal with delight when their daughter kicked, I silently started crying. I put my hands over my ears and shook my head back and forth. I wanted to run out of the diner and scream in the middle of the parking lot. I was sure my grief was going to kill me...right then and there.
I've had many moments like that over the past three months. When you feel so heartbroken, you wonder how it's possible that your heart continues to beat at all.
That woman had every right to be joyful. She had every right to talk about her pregnancy to her friend. But it hurts to hear those things after your baby dies. The happiness of others can sometimes magnify your pain.
This doesn't mean that people shouldn't be happy because others are hurting. It's just part of life. Your best day could be someone's worst. Your worst day could be someone's best.
After you've suffered a great loss, you see the world through a lens. A lens of loss. For an undetermined amount of time, there are many things (some expected, some unexpected) that remind you of your loss.
Sometimes looking through the lens of loss gives you compassion. You see the suffering and pain of others in a new way and you feel new levels of empathy.
Sometimes looking through the lens of loss makes you angry. You watch other people have their hopes fulfilled, while your dreams have been shattered.
Sometimes looking through the lens of loss causes you immense pain. You smile back at the pregnant woman in the grocery store, and then you go sit in your car and cry.
As we sat in Isaac's tonight and shared dessert, a large family sat beside us. One of the little boys was seated with his back to me, but soon turned his entire body around to stare at me. He couldn't have been more than one or two years old. He had beautiful big brown eyes. His mom kept trying to distract him to make him turn around, but he wouldn't take those eyes off of me.
In an alternate reality, I would love this. I love children and typically delight in interacting with them. I attempted to smile and wave at him, but my lens of loss makes these familiar responses feel foreign.
His mom smiled at my husband and said, "I think you have some competition! My son can't take his eyes off of her!" We both smiled.
We didn't tell her how we were really feeling. We didn't tell her that our son has just died. We didn't tell her that her son reminded us of what we'll never have with William. How we won't take him to restaurants. How we won't see him grow year after year. How we'll never know the color of his eyes.
Because you don't force others to wear your lens of loss, your lens of grief. They see the world through their own lenses. Perhaps they've already known great pain...perhaps they haven't.
That family in Isaac's seemed to be enjoying a nice evening together. I sincerely hope they were all as happy and healthy as they appeared. And even though our brief encounter reminded us of our loss, I hope it reminded them of what they have.
And, for their sake, I hope they ordered the Salted Caramel Vanilla Crunch cake...because it was truly delicious.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Beautiful
There have been times in my life when I've struggled with seeing myself as beautiful. I had a very narrow definition of beauty and felt that I always fell short.
Lately, I have noticed that I've been avoiding looking at myself. I look in the mirror and see someone I don't even recognize. I see hair that needs to be cut. I see extra weight accumulated from months of hormone injections before I got pregnant. I see stretch marks etched across my stomach. I see a deep sadness in my eyes. I see the weariness of grief and loss and shattered dreams.
I find that when I catch a glimpse of myself...I look away.
Where have you gone? I ask myself. Who have you become?
A few weeks ago, I happened across a song called "Beauty from Pain" by Superchicks. It took me aback as I listened to it for the first time. Every single word of the song spoke to me. The verses are so honest and the song speaks to the raw pain of grief and disappointment.
Yesterday, I was trying to force myself to get dressed and begin my day. I thought of "Beauty from Pain" and the lyric that says, "I know I'm alive but I feel like I've died". I sat on the end of my bed and cried. I felt the searing pain that only those who have grieved can recognize, I imagine.
You are alive.
The person you love is not.
And you wonder if part of you has died with them.
The good part...the beautiful part.
I decided to put on the song and lay back on the bed to listen. As the chorus began, I found myself meditating on the words.
I thought back to the pictures of me holding William right after he was born. I hardly remember the photographer being there.* As she quietly snapped pictures, I met my son face-to-face for the first time. The pictures show me looking at my baby with a visible love. My features are soft and my face is peaceful. In one, I am brushing my lips across his forehead with my eyes closed as I breath in his presence.
You don't see the tears and screaming from the agonizing delivery just moments before. You don't see the fact that my life was literally hanging in the balance and I would soon we whisked away to an operating room (the details of which I will share when I complete his birth story). You don't see my body shaking from both the trauma and sacredness of that moment.
What you see is a mother meeting her son for the first time.
And she is beautiful.
As I lay on my bed, listening to the song and thinking back to those moments with William, I realized that I am that beautiful mother. I am still the mother in those pictures.
I slowly got up and faced the mirror above my dresser. I looked at myself and resisted the urge to look away. As the song continued to play, I searched for beauty.
And I found it.
I found it in my eyes, swollen from crying. I found it in the silent tears running slowly down my cheeks. I found it in the stretch marks across my stomach, the battle scars of my motherhood. I found it in the curves of my body where I sheltered and carried my son.
I saw beauty in my pain. My pain shows my capacity to love. And love is beautiful.
As I looked at my reflection, I hoped for the future and the beauty that will emerge from these ashes. I asked God to refine me as gold is purified through flames.
My definition of beauty has now widened.
I am throwing modesty to the wind and claiming my beauty as a woman and as a mother. I don't know why God is allowing me to walk through this pain, but I am choosing to believe that He is making me more and more beautiful in the midst of it.
*There is a wonderful organization called Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep that organizes a network of professional photographers who are willing to volunteer their time to take pictures of stillborn or critically ill newborns. A photographer from this organization came the moment she was called to take pictures of our precious baby.
Lately, I have noticed that I've been avoiding looking at myself. I look in the mirror and see someone I don't even recognize. I see hair that needs to be cut. I see extra weight accumulated from months of hormone injections before I got pregnant. I see stretch marks etched across my stomach. I see a deep sadness in my eyes. I see the weariness of grief and loss and shattered dreams.
I find that when I catch a glimpse of myself...I look away.
Where have you gone? I ask myself. Who have you become?
A few weeks ago, I happened across a song called "Beauty from Pain" by Superchicks. It took me aback as I listened to it for the first time. Every single word of the song spoke to me. The verses are so honest and the song speaks to the raw pain of grief and disappointment.
Yesterday, I was trying to force myself to get dressed and begin my day. I thought of "Beauty from Pain" and the lyric that says, "I know I'm alive but I feel like I've died". I sat on the end of my bed and cried. I felt the searing pain that only those who have grieved can recognize, I imagine.
You are alive.
The person you love is not.
And you wonder if part of you has died with them.
The good part...the beautiful part.
I decided to put on the song and lay back on the bed to listen. As the chorus began, I found myself meditating on the words.
After all this has passed
I still will remain
After I've cried my last
They'll be beauty from pain
Though it won't be today
Someday I'll hope again
And they'll be beauty from pain
You will bring beauty from my pain
Am I beautiful, God? Is it possible to be beautiful after all that has happened?
I thought back to the pictures of me holding William right after he was born. I hardly remember the photographer being there.* As she quietly snapped pictures, I met my son face-to-face for the first time. The pictures show me looking at my baby with a visible love. My features are soft and my face is peaceful. In one, I am brushing my lips across his forehead with my eyes closed as I breath in his presence.
You don't see the tears and screaming from the agonizing delivery just moments before. You don't see the fact that my life was literally hanging in the balance and I would soon we whisked away to an operating room (the details of which I will share when I complete his birth story). You don't see my body shaking from both the trauma and sacredness of that moment.
What you see is a mother meeting her son for the first time.
And she is beautiful.
As I lay on my bed, listening to the song and thinking back to those moments with William, I realized that I am that beautiful mother. I am still the mother in those pictures.
I slowly got up and faced the mirror above my dresser. I looked at myself and resisted the urge to look away. As the song continued to play, I searched for beauty.
And I found it.
I found it in my eyes, swollen from crying. I found it in the silent tears running slowly down my cheeks. I found it in the stretch marks across my stomach, the battle scars of my motherhood. I found it in the curves of my body where I sheltered and carried my son.
I saw beauty in my pain. My pain shows my capacity to love. And love is beautiful.
As I looked at my reflection, I hoped for the future and the beauty that will emerge from these ashes. I asked God to refine me as gold is purified through flames.
My definition of beauty has now widened.
I am throwing modesty to the wind and claiming my beauty as a woman and as a mother. I don't know why God is allowing me to walk through this pain, but I am choosing to believe that He is making me more and more beautiful in the midst of it.
"Yet God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God's work from beginning to end."
Ecclesiastes 3:11 (New Living Translation)
*There is a wonderful organization called Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep that organizes a network of professional photographers who are willing to volunteer their time to take pictures of stillborn or critically ill newborns. A photographer from this organization came the moment she was called to take pictures of our precious baby.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Missing
Sometimes only one person is missing and the whole world seems depopulated.
Alphonse de Lamartine
In recent weeks, I have been more contemplative in my grief. Several times, I've placed my fingers over the keys only to find myself lost in thought without a word making it to the screen.
Many people have told me that it will get easier with time. I do believe this to be true and I see some of the rawness of my pain beginning to scab as the days wear on. But, in some ways, the passage of time has been more painful than helpful. I feel as though I'm moving farther and farther away from William. As the world counted down to midnight on New Year's Eve, I ached at leaving 2011 behind. It was the only year he was here with me.
And I realize that William will always be with me in my heart. But, if you've lost a loved one, you know that there's a difference between someone being in your heart and someone being here with you. Really here...a living, breathing piece of your life.
I feel the way that everyone feels when they lose someone they love. I feel that he is missing. I feel like he should be here, and he is not.
And because he is missing, there is a big empty space where memories will never be made. No birthday parties or new clothes...no first words or favorite colors...no cuddling or bedtime stories.
And I'm so thankful for the memories I do have with him, for the brief lifetime we spent together. The kicks and the singing...the ladybugs and the hiccups...the long drives and belly rubs. But the feeling that he is missing will never completely go away.
I know I will experience so many wonderful memories with our future children, but I had dreams for William. There were hopes and dreams that belonged just to him.
Because when someone enters your life, they make a space for themselves. A space with curves and corners that no other person can quite fill. When they are not there anymore, that space feels empty and it hurts your heart.
So here I am. Trying to navigate each day when someone I love so deeply is missing. And I know that countless others are doing the same thing and have done the same thing. I know that God is still with me, patiently and gently guiding me through this journey of pain and loss. I know that the acute grief will subside and the sun will shine again.
But today it is raining. The sun isn't shining. No matter how much I wish differently, my William is not here.
And because he is missing
I am missing him
so much
Friday, December 23, 2011
Christmas
I have always loved Christmas. I still love it.
But having Christmas arrive less than six weeks after our tremendous loss has been strange. It's confusing to have such deep sorrow during a time that typically brings such happiness.
When I look at the beautiful ornaments that hang on the tree in William's honor, I am filled with joy and pain. I feel joy because he lived. I feel pain because he lives no longer.
His stocking hangs above the fireplace. We will fill it each year with items to donate to a child in need. The thought of this new tradition brings me happiness. William will never reach into his stocking on Christmas morning. The realization of this loss brings me intense sadness.
In the midst of my grief, I strive to remember why we celebrate Christmas. With gratitude, I reflect on the gift of Jesus and how His birth, death, and resurrection has made it possible for us to spend eternity in Heaven.
Today, my husband and I visited the cemetery for the first time since William's burial. On the way there, we stopped and bought two small plants to place on his grave. As we picked them out, I choked back tears. Instead of buying presents for our son, we were preparing to visit his grave.
Later, we wept as we knelt together in front of the temporary marker that bears his name. I ran my fingers across each letter. My heart ached.
As I looked around the cemetery, I noticed countless graves with wreaths or other Christmas items placed on them. I realized that people come to the cemetery at Christmas as a way to honor their loved ones...to remember them.
We will now do the same. We know William resides in Heaven, but visiting his grave is a way for us to say, We remember you. We miss you. We love you.
As we drove home, we listened to Christmas music. Away in a Manger played softly on the radio as I looked out the window. I listened to the familiar words with a new perspective...
But having Christmas arrive less than six weeks after our tremendous loss has been strange. It's confusing to have such deep sorrow during a time that typically brings such happiness.
When I look at the beautiful ornaments that hang on the tree in William's honor, I am filled with joy and pain. I feel joy because he lived. I feel pain because he lives no longer.
His stocking hangs above the fireplace. We will fill it each year with items to donate to a child in need. The thought of this new tradition brings me happiness. William will never reach into his stocking on Christmas morning. The realization of this loss brings me intense sadness.
In the midst of my grief, I strive to remember why we celebrate Christmas. With gratitude, I reflect on the gift of Jesus and how His birth, death, and resurrection has made it possible for us to spend eternity in Heaven.
Today, my husband and I visited the cemetery for the first time since William's burial. On the way there, we stopped and bought two small plants to place on his grave. As we picked them out, I choked back tears. Instead of buying presents for our son, we were preparing to visit his grave.
Later, we wept as we knelt together in front of the temporary marker that bears his name. I ran my fingers across each letter. My heart ached.
As I looked around the cemetery, I noticed countless graves with wreaths or other Christmas items placed on them. I realized that people come to the cemetery at Christmas as a way to honor their loved ones...to remember them.
We will now do the same. We know William resides in Heaven, but visiting his grave is a way for us to say, We remember you. We miss you. We love you.
As we drove home, we listened to Christmas music. Away in a Manger played softly on the radio as I looked out the window. I listened to the familiar words with a new perspective...
Be near me, Lord Jesus,
I ask Thee to stay
Close by me forever
And love me I pray
Bless all the dear children
In Thy tender care
And take us to heaven
To live with Thee there
I ask Thee to stay
Close by me forever
And love me I pray
Bless all the dear children
In Thy tender care
And take us to heaven
To live with Thee there
Sunday, December 11, 2011
I Miss You
It's been almost four weeks since you were born
It's been almost four weeks since you died
I miss you
I miss you so much
When we were separated
My body longed to care for you
My heart longed to beat beside yours
I am so lonely for you
This morning I looked up at our skylight
I watched a single ladybug crawl slowly across the window
And I cried
I cried because I miss telling you about the world
I cried for all the ladybugs you'll never see
I sat beside the Christmas tree
And I cried
I cried because I wanted to spend this Christmas with you
I cried for every Christmas we won't be together
I cry for you often
I cry for everything we had
I cry for everything we'll never have
And I know things will get easier
But this winter feels unending
The coldness of your absence makes my heart ache
And I know you are now living in perfect eternity
But it feels as though you belong with me
In my body
Or in my arms
And I'm trying to accept that you're gone
But I miss you
Your life changed my life
So I grieve for you
Because I read that grief is the cost of loving someone
And I loved you so deeply
And will love you forever
Friday, December 2, 2011
Moments of Grief
I am still working on writing William's birth story. It is a difficult story to tell and I'm writing about it as I feel led.
In the meanwhile, I am working through my grief on a moment by moment basis. I knew it would be difficult, but I didn't anticipate how exhausting it would be.
My sadness is amplified at unexpected times and triggered by unexpected things.
I sit at the kitchen table and stare at the petals that have fallen from the vase of flowers. I realize that the flowers are dying and begin to cry.
I stand in front of the dishwasher and look at the green light that tells me the dishes are clean and need to be put away. I see the clothes piled in the hamper. I hear the garbage truck beeping as it drives around our neighborhood to pick up the trash.
My Mom takes me to the grocery store to help me get a couple things we need. I stand in the produce department and look at all the people rushing around buying fruit and vegetables. I want to stop them and tell them that I had a baby.
I know you can't tell, I imagine myself saying, but I gave birth to a baby boy two weeks ago.
I realize it would be irrational to say these things to strangers, so I quietly shop for my food.
But I do find myself longing to talk about William.
To say his name out loud.
To affirm that he existed.
Sometimes I open my eyes in the morning and think, How has this happened?
Sometimes I stop what I'm doing and say, He died...our baby died.
I say the words aloud because it's a way for me to process and accept that it happened. The words are hard to say and I'm sure they are hard to read or hear, but they are true.
I think that these moments of grief are necessary.
They are painful.
They are uncomfortable.
But they are still necessary.
Sometimes I have to fight feelings of failure.
But then I stop myself.
Because it's ok for me to grieve. If I need to cry, I can cry. I'm allowed to miss my baby.
Having faith in God does not mean that I won't or shouldn't feel pain. God doesn't require me to pretend that I'm not devastated by the loss of William.
So instead of putting unrealistic expectations on myself, I will accept my need to grieve.
I will allow myself to validate the sad things that have happened by saying them aloud. But even in my moments of grief, there are other truths that need to be remembered.
They need to spoken aloud, as well.
I will feel happiness again.
In the meanwhile, I am working through my grief on a moment by moment basis. I knew it would be difficult, but I didn't anticipate how exhausting it would be.
My sadness is amplified at unexpected times and triggered by unexpected things.
I sit at the kitchen table and stare at the petals that have fallen from the vase of flowers. I realize that the flowers are dying and begin to cry.
The flowers are dying. My baby died. Why do beautiful things die?
I stand in front of the dishwasher and look at the green light that tells me the dishes are clean and need to be put away. I see the clothes piled in the hamper. I hear the garbage truck beeping as it drives around our neighborhood to pick up the trash.
How do these ordinary things keep happening when I'm in such extraordinary pain?
My Mom takes me to the grocery store to help me get a couple things we need. I stand in the produce department and look at all the people rushing around buying fruit and vegetables. I want to stop them and tell them that I had a baby.
I know you can't tell, I imagine myself saying, but I gave birth to a baby boy two weeks ago.
It really happened.
He used to be alive...and now he isn't.
I realize it would be irrational to say these things to strangers, so I quietly shop for my food.
But I do find myself longing to talk about William.
To say his name out loud.
To affirm that he existed.
Sometimes I open my eyes in the morning and think, How has this happened?
Sometimes I stop what I'm doing and say, He died...our baby died.
I say the words aloud because it's a way for me to process and accept that it happened. The words are hard to say and I'm sure they are hard to read or hear, but they are true.
I think that these moments of grief are necessary.
They are painful.
They are uncomfortable.
But they are still necessary.
Sometimes I have to fight feelings of failure.
Pull yourself together, Ali.
Stop crying.
Where's your faith in God?
But then I stop myself.
Because it's ok for me to grieve. If I need to cry, I can cry. I'm allowed to miss my baby.
Having faith in God does not mean that I won't or shouldn't feel pain. God doesn't require me to pretend that I'm not devastated by the loss of William.
So instead of putting unrealistic expectations on myself, I will accept my need to grieve.
I will allow myself to validate the sad things that have happened by saying them aloud. But even in my moments of grief, there are other truths that need to be remembered.
They need to spoken aloud, as well.
God is good, even when life feels bad
Hope endures, even when pain is all I see
God is near, even when I feel so very alone
My moments of grief will lessen over time...I will feel happiness again...
I will feel happiness again.
Friday, November 25, 2011
No, Honey, He Has Passed
I lay back on the table and lift my shirt, exposing my stomach. This particular nurse has checked William's heartbeat several times and knows to start on my right side. I know where William is and I know that she is placing the doppler exactly over his body.
Instead of the familiar whooshing sound of his heartbeat, I hear nothing but white noise.
I cover my face with my hand and start gasping. She is moving the doppler around my stomach.
Searching.
My gasping turns to wailing. I'm pressing my hands against my mouth to stifle the screams. My husband is holding me. He is crying.
The nurse's eyes are red and filling with tears. She says something I cannot hear because I'm crying in agony. She walks out of the room and comes back with another nurse.
I grab her hand as the new nurse moves the doppler around with urgency. The new nurse stops for a moment and listens to a faint slow heartbeat. The two nurses begin talking to one another. They are trying to figure out if it's William's heartbeat or mine.
I know that it's mine. I know his heartbeat and I know it has stopped.
They leave to get the doctor. I'm sobbing in my husband's arms. The doctor comes in and tells me that we are moving rooms so she can do an ultrasound.
I can barely walk as we emerge from the room and begin crossing the hallway. There are four or five nurses standing in the hallway watching us. Some of them are crying.
I know there are patients waiting only a few footsteps away for their appointments. I know their babies are alive and mine is dead. I am biting my arm to keep from screaming.
I lay on the table and lift my shirt a second time. I tell the doctor to turn the screen away from us. My husband has draped his body over mine. We are crying.
I look at the doctor as she stares at the screen, shaking her head.
Is he alive? I ask in desperation. I already know the answer.
A nurse walks in.
My baby died, I tell her through the sobs.
Another nurse walks in.
My baby has died, I say again.
The doctor shudders and looks away. When she faces me, I can see she is beginning to cry and trying to gain composure.
Each time someone new comes in the room, I tell them that my baby has died. I'm saying it again and again so that I can believe it to be true.
My screaming turns to moaning.
God, please help us. Please help us.
William...William...my baby...I whisper. I'm wrapping my arms around my stomach, trying to hold him through the barrier of my skin.
We love you...Mommy loves you. Mommy's here.
My sister-in-law has been waiting for us and comes in after the doctor tells her what has happened. She is crying. We place our hands on my stomach.
I suddenly realize that we must go to CHOP now. I begin telling the doctor what to say when she calls. I'm frantic. She gently tells me that she knows what to tell them. I begin saying goodbye to the nurses. Some of them hug me. Most of them are still crying.
They let us leave through a back exit so that we don't have to walk through the waiting room. I stop crying as the elevator slowly descends. We walk to the car. I'm numb.
In the car, my husband hands me William's clothes and blanket. As we drive to CHOP, I begin removing the tags and stickers.
Silent tears are streaming down my face as I prepare for my baby. I stroke the sleeper we've chosen for him with my fingers. I hold the matching hat to my lips and begin kissing the fabric. I gently rub the beautiful blue blanket against my neck. I do the same with each piece of his outfit. I use his clothing and blanket to wipe away my tears. I do all of this slowly, as if performing a sacred ritual. I want William to be surrounded by my scent when he's born.
It's the only way I can care for him right now...and it calms me.
I look out of the car window. The sun is shining. It's a beautiful day to meet our son.
My stomach is cramping as we park the car. We walk to the elevator and I wonder if I'm just nervous or having contractions.
The elevator opens at the fifth floor and we begin walking to the special delivery unit. As we approach the waiting room, I see my doctor. There are many doctors at CHOP, and they are all wonderful, but this doctor is our special doctor. She has worked with us the most and has talked to us and cared for us. We love and trust her.
She sees us. We are walking toward one another and I open my arms.
As she embraces me, I whisper, Do you know?
She nods sadly and tightens her embrace.
She leaves briefly to prepare for my admission. While she is gone, our genetic councilor arrives. She has been so dedicated to us and we love and trust her, as well.
Do you know? I whisper.
Yes, she says quietly as she hugs me.
Our doctor comes back and we walk quietly into the delivery unit. My body is shaking violently as we walk into the room that has been chosen for me to deliver our son.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Realizing that William's heart had stopped beating was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. At first, I wondered if I should try to forget this part of his birth story. But I feel an urging to remember...even though it's so painful.
William's heart stopped beating.
It's so hard to accept, but it happened. It's part of his story.
I have come to understand that part of my love and commitment to William is acknowledging every part of his story, even the most devastating.
My prayer is that God will help me process the traumatic moments of William's story. As time passes, I pray that He will ease the pain and brokenness I feel while allowing all the memories of William's story to remain.
Instead of the familiar whooshing sound of his heartbeat, I hear nothing but white noise.
I cover my face with my hand and start gasping. She is moving the doppler around my stomach.
Searching.
My gasping turns to wailing. I'm pressing my hands against my mouth to stifle the screams. My husband is holding me. He is crying.
The nurse's eyes are red and filling with tears. She says something I cannot hear because I'm crying in agony. She walks out of the room and comes back with another nurse.
I grab her hand as the new nurse moves the doppler around with urgency. The new nurse stops for a moment and listens to a faint slow heartbeat. The two nurses begin talking to one another. They are trying to figure out if it's William's heartbeat or mine.
I know that it's mine. I know his heartbeat and I know it has stopped.
They leave to get the doctor. I'm sobbing in my husband's arms. The doctor comes in and tells me that we are moving rooms so she can do an ultrasound.
I can barely walk as we emerge from the room and begin crossing the hallway. There are four or five nurses standing in the hallway watching us. Some of them are crying.
I know there are patients waiting only a few footsteps away for their appointments. I know their babies are alive and mine is dead. I am biting my arm to keep from screaming.
I lay on the table and lift my shirt a second time. I tell the doctor to turn the screen away from us. My husband has draped his body over mine. We are crying.
I look at the doctor as she stares at the screen, shaking her head.
Is he alive? I ask in desperation. I already know the answer.
No, honey, he has passed.
A nurse walks in.
My baby died, I tell her through the sobs.
Another nurse walks in.
My baby has died, I say again.
The doctor shudders and looks away. When she faces me, I can see she is beginning to cry and trying to gain composure.
Each time someone new comes in the room, I tell them that my baby has died. I'm saying it again and again so that I can believe it to be true.
My screaming turns to moaning.
God, please help us. Please help us.
William...William...my baby...I whisper. I'm wrapping my arms around my stomach, trying to hold him through the barrier of my skin.
We love you...Mommy loves you. Mommy's here.
My sister-in-law has been waiting for us and comes in after the doctor tells her what has happened. She is crying. We place our hands on my stomach.
I suddenly realize that we must go to CHOP now. I begin telling the doctor what to say when she calls. I'm frantic. She gently tells me that she knows what to tell them. I begin saying goodbye to the nurses. Some of them hug me. Most of them are still crying.
They let us leave through a back exit so that we don't have to walk through the waiting room. I stop crying as the elevator slowly descends. We walk to the car. I'm numb.
In the car, my husband hands me William's clothes and blanket. As we drive to CHOP, I begin removing the tags and stickers.
Silent tears are streaming down my face as I prepare for my baby. I stroke the sleeper we've chosen for him with my fingers. I hold the matching hat to my lips and begin kissing the fabric. I gently rub the beautiful blue blanket against my neck. I do the same with each piece of his outfit. I use his clothing and blanket to wipe away my tears. I do all of this slowly, as if performing a sacred ritual. I want William to be surrounded by my scent when he's born.
It's the only way I can care for him right now...and it calms me.
I look out of the car window. The sun is shining. It's a beautiful day to meet our son.
My stomach is cramping as we park the car. We walk to the elevator and I wonder if I'm just nervous or having contractions.
The elevator opens at the fifth floor and we begin walking to the special delivery unit. As we approach the waiting room, I see my doctor. There are many doctors at CHOP, and they are all wonderful, but this doctor is our special doctor. She has worked with us the most and has talked to us and cared for us. We love and trust her.
She sees us. We are walking toward one another and I open my arms.
As she embraces me, I whisper, Do you know?
She nods sadly and tightens her embrace.
She leaves briefly to prepare for my admission. While she is gone, our genetic councilor arrives. She has been so dedicated to us and we love and trust her, as well.
Do you know? I whisper.
Yes, she says quietly as she hugs me.
Our doctor comes back and we walk quietly into the delivery unit. My body is shaking violently as we walk into the room that has been chosen for me to deliver our son.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Realizing that William's heart had stopped beating was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. At first, I wondered if I should try to forget this part of his birth story. But I feel an urging to remember...even though it's so painful.
William's heart stopped beating.
It's so hard to accept, but it happened. It's part of his story.
I have come to understand that part of my love and commitment to William is acknowledging every part of his story, even the most devastating.
My prayer is that God will help me process the traumatic moments of William's story. As time passes, I pray that He will ease the pain and brokenness I feel while allowing all the memories of William's story to remain.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Monday Morning
On Friday we had learned that William was beginning to fade. Over the weekend, we waited for our next heartbeat check on Monday.
On Sunday night, I slept deeply. I found it hard to wake on Monday morning. I half-heartedly added a few items to the bag we had packed in case we had to rush to the hospital. I just didn't feel as though Monday was going to be the day.
We were going to my local OB's office for the check and would go on to CHOP if no heartbeat was found. I just didn't believe it would happen like that. I was sure that if William's heart stopped that week, we would discover it at our weekly CHOP appointment on Wednesday.
As we waited to go to the heartbeat check, I reminded my husband to get the bag we had packed. We don't need it today, but we should have it just in case.
I sat on the couch and read to William. I read him a children's book about a parent telling his child how much he loved him. I rubbed my belly longing for him to kick. I could feel exactly where his body was on my right side. He always loved being on my right side. Sometimes I would get up out of bed and there would be a huge bulge to the right of my belly button. I loved imagining him curled up in his favorite spot within me.
Just before we left, I snapped a few pictures of myself in the mirror and asked my husband to take a picture of my belly. I rarely did this throughout my pregnancy, but those pictures are such a treasure to me now. I didn't realize they would be the last pictures of me carrying William.
We got in the car and drove to the doctor's office. I awkwardly walked up the path to the door. Even though I was just under 7 months pregnant, I was measuring much bigger. I looked 9 months pregnant and ready to deliver at any moment.
Don't worry, said a woman standing by the door, You're in the home stretch now!
How could she have known the truth to her words?
We walked back to the examining room and the nurse asked if I wanted her to take my blood pressure and weight.
That would be great, I said. Let's listen to the heartbeat first.
Why did I feel so confident that we would hear it?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm going to write about William's birth with a level of detail and candor that goes deeper than my typical style of writing. It may be difficult for some people to read, but I'll do this because it helps me process what happened. I'll also do this because William's birth is now part of my journey as a mother.
Mothers often share their birth stories. They talk about whether they had a vaginal delivery or a Cesarian. They talk about how long they labored and how they managed their pain. I want to share my story, too...but my story is one of birth and death.
Our society is often uncomfortable talking about death. The death of an infant makes people even more uncomfortable. Years ago, people rarely spoke of their stillborn children. They were made to feel as though they ought to forget the trauma...to move on. I believe that every child's story is worthy of telling, no matter what the circumstances or outcome.
William was born still, but he was still born. His birth story deserves to be told, and I've earned the right to tell it.
On Sunday night, I slept deeply. I found it hard to wake on Monday morning. I half-heartedly added a few items to the bag we had packed in case we had to rush to the hospital. I just didn't feel as though Monday was going to be the day.
We were going to my local OB's office for the check and would go on to CHOP if no heartbeat was found. I just didn't believe it would happen like that. I was sure that if William's heart stopped that week, we would discover it at our weekly CHOP appointment on Wednesday.
As we waited to go to the heartbeat check, I reminded my husband to get the bag we had packed. We don't need it today, but we should have it just in case.
I sat on the couch and read to William. I read him a children's book about a parent telling his child how much he loved him. I rubbed my belly longing for him to kick. I could feel exactly where his body was on my right side. He always loved being on my right side. Sometimes I would get up out of bed and there would be a huge bulge to the right of my belly button. I loved imagining him curled up in his favorite spot within me.
Just before we left, I snapped a few pictures of myself in the mirror and asked my husband to take a picture of my belly. I rarely did this throughout my pregnancy, but those pictures are such a treasure to me now. I didn't realize they would be the last pictures of me carrying William.
We got in the car and drove to the doctor's office. I awkwardly walked up the path to the door. Even though I was just under 7 months pregnant, I was measuring much bigger. I looked 9 months pregnant and ready to deliver at any moment.
Don't worry, said a woman standing by the door, You're in the home stretch now!
How could she have known the truth to her words?
We walked back to the examining room and the nurse asked if I wanted her to take my blood pressure and weight.
That would be great, I said. Let's listen to the heartbeat first.
Why did I feel so confident that we would hear it?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm going to write about William's birth with a level of detail and candor that goes deeper than my typical style of writing. It may be difficult for some people to read, but I'll do this because it helps me process what happened. I'll also do this because William's birth is now part of my journey as a mother.
Mothers often share their birth stories. They talk about whether they had a vaginal delivery or a Cesarian. They talk about how long they labored and how they managed their pain. I want to share my story, too...but my story is one of birth and death.
Our society is often uncomfortable talking about death. The death of an infant makes people even more uncomfortable. Years ago, people rarely spoke of their stillborn children. They were made to feel as though they ought to forget the trauma...to move on. I believe that every child's story is worthy of telling, no matter what the circumstances or outcome.
William was born still, but he was still born. His birth story deserves to be told, and I've earned the right to tell it.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Winter is Here
William Daniel Lake
was born into Heaven
on November 14, 2011 at 11:48 pm
He weighed 3 lbs and was 14 inches long
He had my nose and my husband's mouth
His feet were perfect
Today we had a beautiful service to recognize and celebrate his life. Then, as the sun shone down on us and the winter wind blew, we buried our precious son.
I am going to write about William's birth and will continue to share what his life means to me.
Our story as a family is not over and William's will not be forgotten.
Our story as a family is not over and William's will not be forgotten.
For a short time
I had your body in my body
I carried your belly in my belly
And now, though I have your heart in my heart
and feel your soul in my soul
I will never again have your hand in my hand
I miss your life in my life
Poem written by a grieving mother named Johanna to her daughter, Ashley Rose
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Waiting for Winter
The seasons in William's life are beginning to change. As the leaves continue falling from the trees, our baby's life is beginning to fade.
Wednesday morning, I didn't feel him move at all. We went to our appointment at CHOP and his heartbeat was present and within normal range. As the day continued, I felt only small movements...a tap here, a thump there. Thursday came and went with nothing but one or two weak sensations of movement. I felt uneasy, knowing that just days before William's kicks were consistent and strong.
On Friday morning, as the sun rose I called CHOP. The doctor told me that I needed to do a heartbeat check that morning. He didn't say it aggressively, but I could tell he was serious. We made a quick plan to go to our local doctor for a heartbeat check and if there wasn't a heartbeat, we would continue on to CHOP. My husband went to work until the local office opened. I began packing.
As I gathered my things and put them in the bag, I kept glancing in the mirror. I knew that this could be the day and it was possible I wouldn't be pregnant for much longer. I lay my hand on my stomach, soaking in the image of my baby still in my body.
We went to the doctor's office and the nurse found his heartbeat immediately. I was relieved, but couldn't shake the feeling that something was still terribly wrong. Why isn't he moving?
The doctor from CHOP called me a few hours later and explained that William has entered into the final stages of his condition. His body is weakening and he will now spend most of the time sleeping, in a semi-conscious state. His systems will slowly shut down and his heart will be the last thing to stop. She assured me that he is not in pain and will not suffer. The timeline is uncertain. It could be hours, days, or maybe weeks before he passes.
When the call ended, I gasped and began sobbing. I wasn't shocked. I knew this was coming, but nothing prepares you for the moment you truly realize your baby is dying.
With a heavy heart, my husband had gone back to work and my mom was spending the day with me. We lay our hands on my stomach and cried. We told him we were there and that we loved him.
I write this post as the sun is rising. Tears stream down my face. I think back to spring, when everything was new and hope overflowed in my heart. William's life had just begun and I spent long hours daydreaming about the future.
Summer arrived and William grew. As the world outside flourished with life, our sweet baby kept getting bigger and bigger. I fell more deeply in love with him.
As summer ended, we learned of his condition. In utter shock and pain, we entered into fall.
Fall began with grief and uncertainty. But my heart began to change with the colors of the leaves. I was determined to see the beauty of this season. Even though autumn is a time when the lush landscapes fade away and a chilly darkness begins to fall, it's always been my favorite season.
Endings can be beautiful.
I decided to embrace the autumn of William's life, to search for beauty amidst the pain. Of all the seasons of William's life, this has been the most precious. The time we've spent together as a family will be a treasure to me for the rest of my life.
And now winter is upon us, both outside and within my heart. It is a time where life does not truly go away, but is hidden from our sight. Unless there is a great miracle, for which we always hope, William will be born into his life in Heaven and we will continue living here without him.
And so we wait for winter.
We wait with William.
Because that is what we do when we love someone. We stay with them through every season.
We hold their hand
and hold them close.
We speak words of love to them
and then we let them go.
So with an anguished but grateful heart,
I gently stroke my belly where William sleeps,
because I cannot yet hold his hand.
I hold him safely in the center of my body,
because I cannot yet hold him in my arms.
I speak softly to him, telling him that he is dearly loved.
And when God chooses...
I will let him go.
Wednesday morning, I didn't feel him move at all. We went to our appointment at CHOP and his heartbeat was present and within normal range. As the day continued, I felt only small movements...a tap here, a thump there. Thursday came and went with nothing but one or two weak sensations of movement. I felt uneasy, knowing that just days before William's kicks were consistent and strong.
On Friday morning, as the sun rose I called CHOP. The doctor told me that I needed to do a heartbeat check that morning. He didn't say it aggressively, but I could tell he was serious. We made a quick plan to go to our local doctor for a heartbeat check and if there wasn't a heartbeat, we would continue on to CHOP. My husband went to work until the local office opened. I began packing.
As I gathered my things and put them in the bag, I kept glancing in the mirror. I knew that this could be the day and it was possible I wouldn't be pregnant for much longer. I lay my hand on my stomach, soaking in the image of my baby still in my body.
We went to the doctor's office and the nurse found his heartbeat immediately. I was relieved, but couldn't shake the feeling that something was still terribly wrong. Why isn't he moving?
The doctor from CHOP called me a few hours later and explained that William has entered into the final stages of his condition. His body is weakening and he will now spend most of the time sleeping, in a semi-conscious state. His systems will slowly shut down and his heart will be the last thing to stop. She assured me that he is not in pain and will not suffer. The timeline is uncertain. It could be hours, days, or maybe weeks before he passes.
When the call ended, I gasped and began sobbing. I wasn't shocked. I knew this was coming, but nothing prepares you for the moment you truly realize your baby is dying.
With a heavy heart, my husband had gone back to work and my mom was spending the day with me. We lay our hands on my stomach and cried. We told him we were there and that we loved him.
I write this post as the sun is rising. Tears stream down my face. I think back to spring, when everything was new and hope overflowed in my heart. William's life had just begun and I spent long hours daydreaming about the future.
Summer arrived and William grew. As the world outside flourished with life, our sweet baby kept getting bigger and bigger. I fell more deeply in love with him.
As summer ended, we learned of his condition. In utter shock and pain, we entered into fall.
Fall began with grief and uncertainty. But my heart began to change with the colors of the leaves. I was determined to see the beauty of this season. Even though autumn is a time when the lush landscapes fade away and a chilly darkness begins to fall, it's always been my favorite season.
Endings can be beautiful.
I decided to embrace the autumn of William's life, to search for beauty amidst the pain. Of all the seasons of William's life, this has been the most precious. The time we've spent together as a family will be a treasure to me for the rest of my life.
And now winter is upon us, both outside and within my heart. It is a time where life does not truly go away, but is hidden from our sight. Unless there is a great miracle, for which we always hope, William will be born into his life in Heaven and we will continue living here without him.
And so we wait for winter.
We wait with William.
Because that is what we do when we love someone. We stay with them through every season.
We hold their hand
and hold them close.
We speak words of love to them
and then we let them go.
So with an anguished but grateful heart,
I gently stroke my belly where William sleeps,
because I cannot yet hold his hand.
I hold him safely in the center of my body,
because I cannot yet hold him in my arms.
I speak softly to him, telling him that he is dearly loved.
And when God chooses...
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
I Have Two Hearts
It was only a few days after we received William's initial diagnosis of a Cystic Hygroma. I was still processing what we had learned and was desperately holding on to the hope that it wouldn't develop any further and he could be in the 8% that survive this condition.
I am a second grade teacher and my students were very excited about me having a baby in February. After we received William's diagnosis, I had a very simple discussion with them. I did not go into details, but I told them that my baby wasn't feeling well and that it made me sad. Children have such a clear sense of basic emotions and I found that several students went out of their way to encourage me throughout the days that followed our discussion.
I was walking around my classroom, monitoring my students as they worked on an assignment I had given them. One little boy looked up at me and told me that I had done a good job teaching them that day. I smiled and said That makes my heart feel happy. Thank you!
I felt a little 7 year old hand reach up and touch my arm. I looked down at one of the little girls in my class who was sitting directly in front of where I was standing. She softly patted my arm and said,
Remember...You still have two hearts.
Her words stopped me in my tracks. There was something so incredibly profound and supportive about her perspective.
I did have two hearts in my body...my heart and William's heart. It was such a simple and direct reminder that I still had my baby and his heart was still beating, no matter what the diagnosis predicted.
I've thought of my student's words from time to time throughout the past eleven weeks of waiting and uncertainty.
When we were told that William has hydrops, his chance for survival went from 8% to practically 0%. We went to CHOP to try to find out more information.
What they discovered through hours of ultrasound and a thorough echo-cardiogram, was that William's heart was working very hard. Too hard.
When babies are developing in the womb, they require blood that is rich in nutrients and oxygen. This blood travels through the umbilical vein and other parts of the baby's circulatory system. The umbilical vein travels through the liver before sending the blood into the heart. There is a little shunt called the Ductus Venosus that is critical in processing and moving the blood along to the heart.
William does not appear to have a Ductus Venosus. If he does have one, it is not open or functioning the way it should. This means that William's heart is working overtime. He is not getting properly processed blood in his heart which is causing his cardiac output to be much higher than is typical for a baby of his gestational age and size.
I'm sure there is a much more medically eloquent way of explaining this, but this is how we understand the situation based on what we've discussed with the specialists at CHOP.
The doctors feel that William's excessive fluid around his body (Cystic Hygroma) and within his body (Hydrops) is due to the fact that his heart is working too hard. They have explained that it is very likely his heart will come to the point where it can't continue working and it will stop.
Essentially, our baby is in congestive heart failure.
This breaks my heart. Even though the doctors have assured me that William is not suffering and is not experiencing discomfort or pain, my heart is breaking for him.
Every week, we go to CHOP for monitoring. They always listen for his heartbeat with a fetal heart monitor or they look for his heartbeat through an ultrasound. The moments leading up to his heartbeat check are often torturous for me. I know that it's a real possibility that his heart will no longer be beating.
When I hear it, I almost always start to cry. I feel relief wash over me along with a sense of pride that he is still here with us, fighting to live.
When we went to CHOP this morning, I had such a feeling of dread. I hadn't felt him move all morning and wondered if today was the day. The doctors have already indicated that he's held on longer than they expected. Each day he continues to live is truly a miracle.
When she placed the monitor on my stomach, his little heartbeat came across clear and strong. My body was shaking with relief.
Despite his condition, William has continued to grow and develop. In fact, he's a little ahead in his measurements (which are done without counting the fluid). It doesn't change the prognosis they are giving him, but it makes me feel good. I like to think of him as my big strong boy whose legs kick and whose heart beats.
I often have a lot to think about on our car ride home from CHOP each week. It's hard to digest the information they have to give us while we are there. But getting the chance to hear his heartbeat always gives me such a sense of joy and a gratefulness to God. I don't take a single day that William's heart continues to beat for granted.
I have two hearts. I still have two hearts.
Thank you, God.
I am a second grade teacher and my students were very excited about me having a baby in February. After we received William's diagnosis, I had a very simple discussion with them. I did not go into details, but I told them that my baby wasn't feeling well and that it made me sad. Children have such a clear sense of basic emotions and I found that several students went out of their way to encourage me throughout the days that followed our discussion.
I was walking around my classroom, monitoring my students as they worked on an assignment I had given them. One little boy looked up at me and told me that I had done a good job teaching them that day. I smiled and said That makes my heart feel happy. Thank you!
I felt a little 7 year old hand reach up and touch my arm. I looked down at one of the little girls in my class who was sitting directly in front of where I was standing. She softly patted my arm and said,
Remember...You still have two hearts.
Her words stopped me in my tracks. There was something so incredibly profound and supportive about her perspective.
I did have two hearts in my body...my heart and William's heart. It was such a simple and direct reminder that I still had my baby and his heart was still beating, no matter what the diagnosis predicted.
I've thought of my student's words from time to time throughout the past eleven weeks of waiting and uncertainty.
I have two hearts. I still have two hearts.
When we were told that William has hydrops, his chance for survival went from 8% to practically 0%. We went to CHOP to try to find out more information.
What they discovered through hours of ultrasound and a thorough echo-cardiogram, was that William's heart was working very hard. Too hard.
When babies are developing in the womb, they require blood that is rich in nutrients and oxygen. This blood travels through the umbilical vein and other parts of the baby's circulatory system. The umbilical vein travels through the liver before sending the blood into the heart. There is a little shunt called the Ductus Venosus that is critical in processing and moving the blood along to the heart.
William does not appear to have a Ductus Venosus. If he does have one, it is not open or functioning the way it should. This means that William's heart is working overtime. He is not getting properly processed blood in his heart which is causing his cardiac output to be much higher than is typical for a baby of his gestational age and size.
I'm sure there is a much more medically eloquent way of explaining this, but this is how we understand the situation based on what we've discussed with the specialists at CHOP.
The doctors feel that William's excessive fluid around his body (Cystic Hygroma) and within his body (Hydrops) is due to the fact that his heart is working too hard. They have explained that it is very likely his heart will come to the point where it can't continue working and it will stop.
Essentially, our baby is in congestive heart failure.
This breaks my heart. Even though the doctors have assured me that William is not suffering and is not experiencing discomfort or pain, my heart is breaking for him.
My poor baby, your little heart is working so hard. I desperately wish we could fix it.
Every week, we go to CHOP for monitoring. They always listen for his heartbeat with a fetal heart monitor or they look for his heartbeat through an ultrasound. The moments leading up to his heartbeat check are often torturous for me. I know that it's a real possibility that his heart will no longer be beating.
When I hear it, I almost always start to cry. I feel relief wash over me along with a sense of pride that he is still here with us, fighting to live.
When we went to CHOP this morning, I had such a feeling of dread. I hadn't felt him move all morning and wondered if today was the day. The doctors have already indicated that he's held on longer than they expected. Each day he continues to live is truly a miracle.
When she placed the monitor on my stomach, his little heartbeat came across clear and strong. My body was shaking with relief.
Oh, William, you are such a strong boy. We love you so much.
Despite his condition, William has continued to grow and develop. In fact, he's a little ahead in his measurements (which are done without counting the fluid). It doesn't change the prognosis they are giving him, but it makes me feel good. I like to think of him as my big strong boy whose legs kick and whose heart beats.
I often have a lot to think about on our car ride home from CHOP each week. It's hard to digest the information they have to give us while we are there. But getting the chance to hear his heartbeat always gives me such a sense of joy and a gratefulness to God. I don't take a single day that William's heart continues to beat for granted.
I have two hearts. I still have two hearts.
Thank you, God.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Family Time
I hear my husband call my name and I open my eyes, barely awake. He's opening the blinds beside our bed.
Look outside, he says. We have to tell William about snow!
I smile as we lay beside one another and look out the window. We take turns telling our baby boy about the wintery scene outside. We tell him that snow is cold and white. We tell him why snow is fun. We talk to him for several minutes about a variety of things.
This is something we do now. We intentionally talk to our baby. Not because we think he understands what we are saying, but because we want to share ourselves with him. We want to tell him about the world. We want him to hear our voices and sense that we are together.
It's a way to spend time together as a family...and it feels good.
When we first received William's diagnosis, I hardly left the house. The level of pain and shock was high and I found it hard to cope with the outside world. One Saturday morning, my husband suggested we go for a drive. It would be good to get out of the house, but we wouldn't be required to interact with people. We just weren't ready for that yet.
We drove with no destination in mind. Neither of us could barely utter a word, so we held hands and listened to music. Sometimes there just aren't words.
Quiet tears rolled down my face as we passed parks where William would likely never play. I held my breath as we passed soccer fields full of little boys, thinking about the teams that William may never join. I ached as we drove, longing for my son to live...grieving for all he may never experience.
As we drove, I allowed myself to feel the unavoidable pain and disappointment of our situation. I believe it's healthy and normal to feel these things and I don't deny myself moments of appropriate grief.
We finally found our way back home. I felt drained, but I also felt comforted.
We woke up the next day and I found myself asking if we could go on another drive. My husband eagerly agreed. We both felt a sense of healing from our previous drive and thought it was worthwhile to go again.
We headed in a new direction. I quietly listened to the music, allowing the words to encourage me. I looked out the window and occasionally pointed out beautiful houses or trees to my husband. I found myself smiling once or twice. Again, we came home feeling strangely refreshed from our drive.
When the next weekend arrived, we didn't even discuss it. We just knew we were going for another drive. With each new drive, I found my attitude shifting. Instead of focusing on what may never be, I started to notice and appreciate what is.
We started talking a little bit more to one another, and soon we found ourselves talking to William. Our aimless drives began to have specific destinations.
We drove to where my husband went to elementary school. We drove to his old church. We drove to my old schools, too. We drove to places that meant something to us.
I began singing along with the music. I began telling William about the things I could see out the window. I found that it felt so good to teach him things, to be his eyes.
I'm grounded in reality enough to understand that he's not at the developmental point where he comprehends what I'm saying to him. Yet, I know he can hear my voice and sense my presence.
Talking to him and sharing ourselves with him gives us the opportunity to validate his place in our family. It's one way for us to show him that he is our precious son and we are proud to be his parents.
We are proud to be a family.
Our situation is unique and we've had to change our expectations and our plans. I never thought our time with William could be so limited.
So we adjust. We change how we define a lifetime. We embrace the time that we have.
As I sit on the couch, I feel him kick. I know he's awake and moving, so I rub my stomach and begin talking to him. I walk across the room and stand beneath the skylight window, peering into the sun. There are at least five ladybugs crawling around on the surface of the window.
William, there are ladybugs that live in our skylight. They crawl all around on their little tiny legs, which is kind of fun to watch. They are red with small black polka dots. I don't really like insects, but I've always loved ladybugs. They are really quite special and beautiful...
...just like you.
Look outside, he says. We have to tell William about snow!
I smile as we lay beside one another and look out the window. We take turns telling our baby boy about the wintery scene outside. We tell him that snow is cold and white. We tell him why snow is fun. We talk to him for several minutes about a variety of things.
This is something we do now. We intentionally talk to our baby. Not because we think he understands what we are saying, but because we want to share ourselves with him. We want to tell him about the world. We want him to hear our voices and sense that we are together.
It's a way to spend time together as a family...and it feels good.
When we first received William's diagnosis, I hardly left the house. The level of pain and shock was high and I found it hard to cope with the outside world. One Saturday morning, my husband suggested we go for a drive. It would be good to get out of the house, but we wouldn't be required to interact with people. We just weren't ready for that yet.
We drove with no destination in mind. Neither of us could barely utter a word, so we held hands and listened to music. Sometimes there just aren't words.
Quiet tears rolled down my face as we passed parks where William would likely never play. I held my breath as we passed soccer fields full of little boys, thinking about the teams that William may never join. I ached as we drove, longing for my son to live...grieving for all he may never experience.
I want so much for you. You are so wanted.
As we drove, I allowed myself to feel the unavoidable pain and disappointment of our situation. I believe it's healthy and normal to feel these things and I don't deny myself moments of appropriate grief.
We finally found our way back home. I felt drained, but I also felt comforted.
We woke up the next day and I found myself asking if we could go on another drive. My husband eagerly agreed. We both felt a sense of healing from our previous drive and thought it was worthwhile to go again.
We headed in a new direction. I quietly listened to the music, allowing the words to encourage me. I looked out the window and occasionally pointed out beautiful houses or trees to my husband. I found myself smiling once or twice. Again, we came home feeling strangely refreshed from our drive.
When the next weekend arrived, we didn't even discuss it. We just knew we were going for another drive. With each new drive, I found my attitude shifting. Instead of focusing on what may never be, I started to notice and appreciate what is.
We started talking a little bit more to one another, and soon we found ourselves talking to William. Our aimless drives began to have specific destinations.
We drove to where my husband went to elementary school. We drove to his old church. We drove to my old schools, too. We drove to places that meant something to us.
William, this is where Daddy scored a soccer goal and everyone cheered...
This is where Mommy went to school and learned how to read...
This is where your grandparents live. They love you so much...
I began singing along with the music. I began telling William about the things I could see out the window. I found that it felt so good to teach him things, to be his eyes.
I'm grounded in reality enough to understand that he's not at the developmental point where he comprehends what I'm saying to him. Yet, I know he can hear my voice and sense my presence.
Talking to him and sharing ourselves with him gives us the opportunity to validate his place in our family. It's one way for us to show him that he is our precious son and we are proud to be his parents.
We are proud to be a family.
Our situation is unique and we've had to change our expectations and our plans. I never thought our time with William could be so limited.
So we adjust. We change how we define a lifetime. We embrace the time that we have.
As I sit on the couch, I feel him kick. I know he's awake and moving, so I rub my stomach and begin talking to him. I walk across the room and stand beneath the skylight window, peering into the sun. There are at least five ladybugs crawling around on the surface of the window.
William, there are ladybugs that live in our skylight. They crawl all around on their little tiny legs, which is kind of fun to watch. They are red with small black polka dots. I don't really like insects, but I've always loved ladybugs. They are really quite special and beautiful...
...just like you.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Keep Calm and Carry On
Perhaps you've seen this poster before. I saw it a year or two ago and always thought it was rather clever and inspiring. It was created by the British government at the very beginning of World War II. It was intended to be distributed in order to strengthen morale in the event of a wartime disaster.
I always thought the origin of this poster was very interesting, but I find it particularly poignant right now. I don't have first hand experience with the horror of war. I've never faced a military attack or been forced to flee during an invasion. However, I'm going to guess that nothing fully prepares you for what you face during times of battle.
Likewise, I find myself in the midst of an unforeseen crisis and I often feel incredibly unprepared.
What prepares you for the news that your baby is dying?
What prepares you to deliver a baby who has passed away or will die shortly after birth?
Nothing.
Not books. Not websites. Not long talks with others who have walked this journey.
There are some battles in this life that you must face moment-to-moment. Carrying a baby with a fatal diagnosis is one of those battles. I have certainly read some excerpts of books, visited websites, and talked with a few very strong women who have experienced similar loss. We are doing what we can to be as prepared as possible for what may come, but there is only so much we can do.
My thoughts take me back to last Sunday. On Saturday night, I went to bed after a lovely evening of full of family, good food, and pumpkin carving in honor of my birthday. William kicked away as I drifted off to sleep. He often moves the most throughout the night. I find myself looking forward to his precious movements when I wake early in the morning.
On Sunday, I opened my eyes before the sun came up and lay waiting to feel him move.
Stillness.
I tried not to panic, feeling sure that he would start squirming soon. The morning wore on as I drifted in and out of sleep. I became more and more aware of his lack of movement, but refused to dwell on it.
Surely he'll move after I eat breakfast and drink some juice.
The hours passed and I didn't feel anything. My anxiety began to increase.
It is time, God?
Please, no.
I'm not ready! Please, please...
I need more time
I don't want to say goodbye
As the afternoon turned to evening, I began to feel frantic. I grabbed the computer and searched the Babies R Us website, my hands shaking. I have had my heart set on picking out an outfit and a blanket for him. There's so little I may be able to buy for him. I so wanted him to have something that was chosen specifically for him by his Mama.
I searched for preemie sized clothing and blankets for baby boys, thinking someone could go to the store and pick them up for us if today was the day. But it became too painful to look through the items on the screen. I pushed aside the computer, tears streaming down my face.
I wanted so much more, God.
I'm trying so hard to accept the time we've been given,
but I ache for so much more
If I felt no movement after 24 hours, I knew we were supposed to call CHOP.
I don't want to call CHOP
Please kick, William
Please move for Mommy
As we prepared for bed, my thoughts were all over the place.
I felt angry. Why do we have to be in this place of uncertainty?
I felt fear. But I don't know how to deliver a baby.
I felt panic. What if I never feel him kick again? What if he's...gone
I felt a deep sadness for which there are no words. At this point it had been about 24 hours since I'd felt him move and I began preparing to call CHOP first thing in the morning.
As I lay in bed, trying to fall asleep, I felt a small thump.
I froze, hardly able to breath. Is that you, baby boy? Move some more for me, William.
Two more thumps.
The relief poured over me like warm water. His movements increased throughout the night and by morning, he was practically dancing.
Although I was relieved beyond words that William was still with us, I found myself feeling very traumatized on Monday. His lack of movement and the possibility that his life could be over gave me a glimpse into the unspeakable pain we could experience if that is the outcome that awaits us. Yet again, I realized how one cannot fully prepare for loss of a loved one.
Since I do not know exactly what's ahead and can only walk through this battle moment-by-moment, there are some things I will commit to doing in the meanwhile.
I will cling to God, trusting that He will carry me through the moments of unimaginable grief that may come in my life.
I will pray that He guides me through all the moments for which I cannot prepare.
I will carry my precious son and give him all the comfort, warmth, and love I can possibly give him.
I will cry, because I love my baby and the threat to his life warrants sadness and heartache.
I will laugh, because I want William's life to include so much more than my tears and brokenness. I want him to hear and feel the joy of laughter every day of his life.
I will sing, because I want to share the gift of music with him.
I will hope, because each day his heart beats is a miracle.
I will honor his life, because he is a precious gift from God.
I will love him. I will love God. I will love others.
And amidst the battles, the storms, and the moments for which no one could ever prepare...I will do my best to keep calm and carry on.
Monday, October 24, 2011
The Morn Shall Tearless Be
I have days when joy and hope help to cushion my pain, but I also have days when the sadness and heartache feel insurmountable. It's a sadness that I've never felt before. It seeps into my body and I ache, inside and out.
And then there are the nights. I find myself staring out into the darkness, wondering if the morning will ever appear.
A few nights ago, I woke in the middle of the night. William was moving as I placed my hand onto my stomach. The joy and the pain mingled together. I smiled as silent tears ran down my cheeks.
My husband slept soundly beside me as I reached for my cell phone. I opened up the calendar screen and scrolled to William's due date. I pressed the screen to my face as my silent tears turned into muffled sobs. I let my phone drop down to my chest and I held it over my heart. As I held his due date close, I longed for my baby to be born alive and well while simultaneously preparing for a different and devastating outcome.
I find that moments like these are part of an important process of surrendering my own plans and expectations to God's will.
It's a painful process. In fact, sometimes it's excruciating.
I recently purchased an album of classic hymns sung by Chris Rice. His voice calms me and the long-treasured lyrics of each hymn soothe my heart. A verse from the hymn, "O Love That Will Not Let me Go" has really resonated with me.
I accept the days of sadness and the nights of pain as part of this journey I'm walking. I accept them because I know that it is normal to grieve when the circumstances in your life take a painful and unexpected turn. It's normal to grieve when you are forced to alter your hopes and dreams and adjust to a new and unfamiliar reality. Surrendering your plans and expectations is so very hard.
But I will continue to seek joy, despite my circumstances.
I will believe that God is good, even when life feels bad
I will allow the beauty of William's life to soak into my heart
And then there are the nights. I find myself staring out into the darkness, wondering if the morning will ever appear.
How can this be, God?
How can this be...
A few nights ago, I woke in the middle of the night. William was moving as I placed my hand onto my stomach. The joy and the pain mingled together. I smiled as silent tears ran down my cheeks.
My husband slept soundly beside me as I reached for my cell phone. I opened up the calendar screen and scrolled to William's due date. I pressed the screen to my face as my silent tears turned into muffled sobs. I let my phone drop down to my chest and I held it over my heart. As I held his due date close, I longed for my baby to be born alive and well while simultaneously preparing for a different and devastating outcome.
Help me, God
If it's your will for me to let go,
Help me let go
I find that moments like these are part of an important process of surrendering my own plans and expectations to God's will.
It's a painful process. In fact, sometimes it's excruciating.
I recently purchased an album of classic hymns sung by Chris Rice. His voice calms me and the long-treasured lyrics of each hymn soothe my heart. A verse from the hymn, "O Love That Will Not Let me Go" has really resonated with me.
O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.
I accept the days of sadness and the nights of pain as part of this journey I'm walking. I accept them because I know that it is normal to grieve when the circumstances in your life take a painful and unexpected turn. It's normal to grieve when you are forced to alter your hopes and dreams and adjust to a new and unfamiliar reality. Surrendering your plans and expectations is so very hard.
But I will continue to seek joy, despite my circumstances.
I will believe that God is good, even when life feels bad
I will allow the beauty of William's life to soak into my heart
God, please help me endure the nights of weeping
And believe that joy will come in the morningWednesday, October 19, 2011
Choosing His Name
William Daniel Lake
William's name is very special to us.
William is part of my father-in-law's name and Daniel is my father's name. Our fathers are both men of strength and character. They love God, love their families, and treat people with compassion and respect. These are qualities that we admire and we are proud to name our first son after each of them.
The name William means "Will, Desire." It also means "Helmet, Protection." We so deeply desired to be parents and William has been a dream come true. We don't know what the future holds for our family, but William will always be our first child. We have and will continue to cherish every single moment of his life. We pray that his body is protected from pain and shielded from suffering. Our hope is for William to feel safe, comfortable, and deeply loved throughout his life.
William,
We have given you a name of significance because your life is significant.
You are loved and valued.
You matter so very much, darling boy.
The illness that is harming your body is tragic,
but you are not a tragedy.
You are a precious gift from God
Who has knit you together and knows you inside and out.
We are so very thankful for you, William Daniel.
We love you now and always.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Reclaiming Joy
During our time of trying to have a child without success, I had some very sad days. When happiness escaped me, I began to adopt the notion of choosing joy.
For me, happiness is linked to external circumstances. When positive things are happening in my life, I experience happiness. I view joy quite differently. I feel that joy comes from within. It is not dependent on the circumstances in my life. As a Christian, I believe the source of this joy is God.
When the darkness closes in, I can choose to dig deep within me to find joy. Sometimes it's buried beneath my sadness, but when I choose to look...it's always there. That joy can glow in the corner of my heart, helping me hold on to hope.
A little less than two years ago, I remember coming home from a dear friend's house in tears. I watched her darling child play on the carpet while she and I discussed the hopelessness I was feeling about ever conceiving a baby. She prayed with me and encouraged me and loved me. But when I got in the car to drive home, the doubts pinched at my heart and the tears began to flow.
I came home to our quiet, empty house. I stood aimlessly in the kitchen as my sadness began to form into anger.
And that's when I realized I had a choice to make. I could give myself over to the bitterness.
Or I could choose joy.
Through a blur of tears, I began writing on the blank chalkboard hanging on our kitchen wall. I wrote three words...
"I am blessed"
I chose joy. I chose to love my husband more than ever before. I chose to love the children in my life until God blessed me with my own. I chose to be grateful for our home and our jobs and our families. I chose to hope.
The day we left that doctor's office with the devastating news of William's condition, I felt as if the glow of joy within my heart had finally gone out. I felt as if I were in some sort of terrible game, and I was losing.
For several days, when I looked at the chalkboard my eyes would narrow in bitterness.
And then I began to feel the familiar longing to dig beneath the sadness for joy.
And do you know what?
I still couldn't find it.
A few days later I would dig again. Through my pain and weeping, I kept digging.
And slowly...I began to find it again.
I decided to reclaim joy.
It's a choice I have to make every single day. Some days I'm successful and other days I'm not. But I know that God has placed a joy in my heart that cannot be stolen, despite my circumstances.
Today was a particularly low day for me. The joy was hard to find...but it's still there.
As I write this, William is wiggling inside of me. So I choose joy.
Our friends and family continue to love us, pray for us, support us. So I choose joy.
William has been a part of our family for 22 weeks and 2 days. So I choose joy.
God has made me a mother. So I choose joy.
As I sit in our family room, I can see the chalkboard hanging in our kitchen. I've never erased it. It reminds me that I made a choice that day. It reminds me to recognize the blessings in my life.
Most importantly, it reminds me to choose joy.
For me, happiness is linked to external circumstances. When positive things are happening in my life, I experience happiness. I view joy quite differently. I feel that joy comes from within. It is not dependent on the circumstances in my life. As a Christian, I believe the source of this joy is God.
When the darkness closes in, I can choose to dig deep within me to find joy. Sometimes it's buried beneath my sadness, but when I choose to look...it's always there. That joy can glow in the corner of my heart, helping me hold on to hope.
A little less than two years ago, I remember coming home from a dear friend's house in tears. I watched her darling child play on the carpet while she and I discussed the hopelessness I was feeling about ever conceiving a baby. She prayed with me and encouraged me and loved me. But when I got in the car to drive home, the doubts pinched at my heart and the tears began to flow.
But what's the plan, God? What's the plan?
I'm lonely for a child. I long to be a mother like so many of my friends.
Do you even care? Are you even listening?
I came home to our quiet, empty house. I stood aimlessly in the kitchen as my sadness began to form into anger.
Should I throw something?
Should I yell?
I am so disappointed, God.
And that's when I realized I had a choice to make. I could give myself over to the bitterness.
Or I could choose joy.
Through a blur of tears, I began writing on the blank chalkboard hanging on our kitchen wall. I wrote three words...
"I am blessed"
I chose joy. I chose to love my husband more than ever before. I chose to love the children in my life until God blessed me with my own. I chose to be grateful for our home and our jobs and our families. I chose to hope.
The day we left that doctor's office with the devastating news of William's condition, I felt as if the glow of joy within my heart had finally gone out. I felt as if I were in some sort of terrible game, and I was losing.
I tried, God.
I can't do it anymore.
Losing this baby will break me beyond repair.
For several days, when I looked at the chalkboard my eyes would narrow in bitterness.
I am not blessed...I am destroyed
And then I began to feel the familiar longing to dig beneath the sadness for joy.
And do you know what?
I still couldn't find it.
A few days later I would dig again. Through my pain and weeping, I kept digging.
And slowly...I began to find it again.
I decided to reclaim joy.
It's a choice I have to make every single day. Some days I'm successful and other days I'm not. But I know that God has placed a joy in my heart that cannot be stolen, despite my circumstances.
Today was a particularly low day for me. The joy was hard to find...but it's still there.
As I write this, William is wiggling inside of me. So I choose joy.
Our friends and family continue to love us, pray for us, support us. So I choose joy.
William has been a part of our family for 22 weeks and 2 days. So I choose joy.
God has made me a mother. So I choose joy.
As I sit in our family room, I can see the chalkboard hanging in our kitchen. I've never erased it. It reminds me that I made a choice that day. It reminds me to recognize the blessings in my life.
Most importantly, it reminds me to choose joy.
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